The Malice Judgement
by Aberlemno
Summary: Sleep and death, storms and promises... And now Samuel's in the Tolbooth with a death sentence. Harmonixing looks like fun.
1. This Time Imperfect

Yes, I know it is evil and bad of me to start another new fic when I have so many others to finish and I have been neglecting fictionpress.net for WAY too long (my character seems to have turned into a Mary-Sue without me noticing..) and etcetera and etcetera. But this is different. Cos I say it is. And this is just a rewrite. So I know exactly what is going to happen. Tragic thing is, so do most of you. But this time there are subtle differences, like this version has one of these new-fangled things called a . Okay, it has a explanation for why there are three harmonixers, why Death Emperor wasn't sticking with the Hyugas, what in the name of cheese-flavoured cthulhu Kaphael even WAS, and all that other stuff. Marianne even has a personality this time. Theoretically. Possibly it'll even end up a Lovecraft crossover this time. (Yay! Shoggoths! Actually, it'd probably have Great Old Ones in it. Who thinks it should be a Lovecraft crossover? Shadow Hearts had enough Lovecraftian stuff in it anyway, I seem to remember someone even did the Elder Sign in battle. Can't remember who, was it Zhuzhen?)  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Shadow Hearts. Some characters in this I own (actually, do I? Not sure if that goes for Harmonixers, does Sacnoth just get them cos they invented Harmonixing? Not that Sacnoth would _want _them), some characters simply belong to Sacnoth. And I don't own any of the other good plot ideas that might come into it later, because if anything good turns up in here that'll be the Lovecraft bits.) If this sucks even worse than usual then it is cos my beta reader can't be bothered. Wait. . . It's still my fault it sucks, isn't it? Oh damn. Everything is pretty much historically incorrect. But I can get away with that, can't I? *hopeful*  
  
  
And there is a *very* brief reference to a Seer somewhere in there, it's nothing to do with Spectral Sight and just means a psychic, only I don't think Samuel would even know what a psychic is, it's much more likely he'd have used Seer'. Just in case there's any confusion.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Edinburgh, Scotland  
  
30 September 1862  
  
Outside, it's dark. A light rain hangs in the air, gradually turning the cobbled streets shiny and wet. Thick clouds obscure the stars and moon. There's a luminous smear on the cloud blanket, showing where the moon is above them. It's late at night, and the streets are almost deserted. A few lone people occasionally pass along them, through the shadows of the tall tenements, doubtlessly up to no good.  
  
  
There is a narrow little cobbled street, steeply sloping downwards, connecting two wide areas, both busy by day. It's name is Candlemaker Row. At the top of the street is a pub, and a graveyard, Greyfriars. The rest of it is all lined with tenements.  
  
Inside these tenements, it's crowded and busy. The centre of the city is overflowing with people, and space is running out fast. If a family can get one room between them, they're lucky.  
  
About halfway up a tenement near the bottom of the road is a room that would, until a few months ago, have seemed as busy and crowded as any of the others. Now, it's only inhabited by one person. It's dusty, dark, messy. The only furniture is a small wooden bed, one battered-looking table and chair, and a short shelf by the dirty window. On the shelf there are two books; a clearly ancient bible and a little dusty red book with no words on its cover. Beside these books is a ragged doll, made out of old cloth that's now ripped and torn in many places, where the rags that were used to stuff it now show through. Half hidden behind the doll is an oddly-shaped pendant with a glowing red stone set in its centre.  
  
The room's single inhabitant, Samuel Bell, is sitting on the battered chair, staring at the floor. His light brown hair is messy and tangled, it's clear it hasn't been brushed for weeks. There are huge purple circles under his eyes, his skin is pale and marked with a multitude of little scars and lines of worry. His nose has a dramatic bump where it's been broken.  
  
Tonight, like every night, he relives the pain. He can't stop it, it runs through his head of its own accord. He'd do anything not to have to see it, to forget.  
  
Hesitantly, he lets out a long,, slow, silent breath, then picks up an unlabelled bottle of whisky from the table. Without getting a glass- he doesn't have one anyway- he takes a long drink.  
  
In his mind it's five years earlier, 1857. It's November, the sky is a plain, pale grey, ad a thin mist hags around the dark- bricked tenements. Cold breezes buffet the buildings, swirling around the remnants of the autumn leaves in dusty whirlpools where wind catches in the mouths of the wynds.  
  
  
  
Then, the room had seemed brighter. . . It had been cleaner, neater, certainly. But after, he found he could hardly bring himself to breathe, let alone tidy up.  
  
He had thought that day would have been happy. It so nearly was. But some cruel intervention of fate had made it awful. . . .  
  
  
  
He isn't sure how well he remembers the events. He knows what happened and he knows he remembers the pain; he still feels it. It seems like a nightmare, and it's impossible for him to tell if he's woken up yet.  
  
  
  
The memories are garbled, disjointed, little snatches of grief. . .  
  
  
He hadn't even been there, when it happened. He'd been waiting outside, sitting on the cold stone of the close's steps, listening. He could hear Katherine screaming. . . . When there was silence, then a baby's cries, he'd thought it was over. . .  
  
Then Katherine's mother, she'd been there to help with the birth, came out and. . .  
  
That was when the memories lurched into a horrific, half-hallucinated chaotic mess. Living nightmarish hypnogognia. What happened after that was almost incomprehensible, but. . .  
  
  
Katherine had died. . .   
  
  
He had held the baby; a girl; in his arms, hearing the wind beat angry punches onto the windowpanes, forgetting how to cry.  
  
  
Soon, there had been a funeral, in the graveyard at the top of the road. But stone was expensive, and the only marker he could afford for Katherine was tiny, a tablet only big enough for the initials K.B. . .   
  
. . .Katherine Bell, not even a date. . .  
  
The graveyard was full of ornate, intricately carved, grand mausoleums for the rich. One in particular, a black, domed one topped with a funeral urn, was better built than its surrounding tenements for the living poor.   
  
. . . And Katherine's marker was not even near her body! The stones went where there was room for them, the bodies went where there was room for them, and the two rarely coincided. The marker wasn't put there until the day after the funeral. It lay in the shadows of other gravestones, quiet and near anonymous.  
  
The wind blew a tattoo of rain against the backs of the small knot of mourners. Her body was unceremoniously dumped into its shallow grave. The minister said one short prayer- the poor were always dying. If there was a full-blown funeral for each of them he'd never be out of the bloody graveyard.  
  
Long after the others had left, Samuel stood by the patchwork, uneven grass where Katherine's body lay, clutching baby Annie. She was the only reason for him not to die right then.  
  
Already she had her mother's brown eyes, he could see Katherine every time he looked at her face. He loved her so fiercely that sometimes it hurt. Nothing must ever happen to her. . .   
  
  
  
  
  
That night, he had a dream. . .  
  
He thought he awoke in Greyfriars Graveyard. It was a little different, though: at the spot where Katherine's body was, there was a large, tall gravestone. Slowly, hypnotically, he walked over and examined it. He'd almost known what it would say.  
  
Katherine Bell  
1836- 1857  
  
  
There was another, smaller stone beside it, with complex carvings. It wasn't there in reality, either. He knelt down to look at it.  
  
  
  
The carving showed an awful, demonic thing, with a skull-like head and one horn protruding from its forehead. It had large wings, slightly bat-like, folded around its shoulders. This devil was standing, arms folded, looking grotesquely pleased with itself.  
  
  
The writing on the gravestone. . . .  
  
Annie Bell  
  
1857- 1862  
  
  
Automatically he stood up, feeling cold and empty inside. A black mist was creeping over the tombstones, emanating from a tiny black mausoleum in a part of the graveyard normally closed off by gates. These gates are never locked, but still people rarely enter them. It's known as the Covenanter's Prison, it says that on a little sign attached to the gates.  
  
Samuel looked around, with a feeling someone else was there. Suddenly the air seemed freezing. Above the graveyard, stars were bright and clear in the sky.  
  
e was overcome with a feeling of cold, choking dread and awe. Coming out of that black tomb was the demon in the carving. It walked purposefully, confidently, and looked straight at him- it seemed like _into _him- with black malicious eyes. It walked towards him, until he was on one side of Annie's gravestone and it was on the other. He was afraid to walk away from it, but he hated to be near it,too. It radiated a chilling, lonely feeling; a feeling of grief and hollow despair. The same feeling he had when he first knew Katherine was dead. The feeling crippled him, he could barely stand up. This thing's evil aura was pushing him down into the cold, corpse-filled earth.  
  
It gestured at Annie's gravestone with a long, thin yet muscly arm. It's got long, clawlike fingers.  
  
This will come to pass.'  
  
The thing's voice sounded like ancient machinery starting up for the first time in a thousand years, a grating clash of metal on mental.  
  
Samuel felt sick then, because the thing sounded as if it knew. As if it knew it was right. He didn't want to admit it though, not to the demon and especially not to himself.  
  
Aye? Are you some kind of fucking Seer?' he spat, the sarcastic, bitter edge intensified by hidden, nagging fear.  
  
It shook its head. But I know this will come true.'  
  
That sounded like a threat. Samuel felt panic and anger building up inside him, but did his best to push it down.  
  
Who are you?' he asked, trying to keep his voice free of emotion.  
  
  
The demon stared unsettlingly at him, as though sizing him up.  
  
  
I am your worst nightmare. I am a lot of people's worst nightmare. . .' it sounded proud of this. My name is Death Emperor.'  
  
  
  
Samuel had woken up with these words echoing through his mind.  
  
  
Death Emperor. . .  
  
It was a dream, he knew that, but he was regularly nagged by the suspicion that there was more to it than that, that he would see Death Emperor again. He didn't, though. Not for a few years. He'd let it sink in, put it down to imagination. After all, the name Death Emperor was exactly the sort of name a panicky, grieving subconscious would assign to such a monster. If it was real, it would have been less obvious, he decided, as all the most powerful fears and bereavments come unexpected, disguised.  
  
  
But it did show up again.  
  
  
That time was the worst part of this whole thing. That time, when Hell broke open and seeped through into this world.  
  
It was almost five years after the dream and it was summer in 1862. He had remembered, at the start of the year, what it had said on Annie's gravestone.  
  
1857--1862. . .  
  
  
This is the year. . .  
  
But there hadn't been any reason why it should be the year. Annie was four,, and she seemed fine. . .   
  
It was inevitable really, living so close to the graveyard, that Annie would see a lot of it as she grew up. Samuel hadn't told he anything about her mother- she was only four, for od's sake, and anyway, he couldn't find the words.  
  
When Annie started playing with the other children in the tenements, he noticed that they went to Greyfriars a lot. It was, he supposed, the best place to play nearby, but there was something incredibly morbid about it. Particularly bout the way they would go up too that black, domed tomb, knock on its heavy wooden doors and call Bluidy Mackingie, come oot if ye daur, lift the sneck and draw the bar! After this childish attempt at resurrection they would run away as fast as they could, just in case Bloody Mackenzie _did _rise from his coffin this time.   
  
  
  
Samuel was worried that there _was_ something more sinister in the graveyard, but again decided it was meaningless. Just the remnants of the dream, still caught up in his head. There were more dangerous things than graveyards,, children were always being stuck down by illness, poverty, _real _things. It was them he did his best to protect her from.  
  
  
Samuel next encountered Death Emperor on a warm, suffocating night in early June. The day had been hot, although mottled light-and-dark grey clouds had enclosed the sky. On the horizon, out past the craggy rock on which the castle stood, the sky was a musky, dirty-looking kind of blue, but the clouds had gathered over Edinburgh. The night was thick and dark, and Samuel awoke again to the twisted dream-version of Greyfriars he'd seen before.  
  
A soft breeze was whispering over the grass and through the thick clouds of leaves on the bushes. Each gravestone was perfect black, holes cut into the night. Greyfriars Kirk was also silhouetted, a nucleus to the graveyard.  
  
The rusty, iron gates to the Covenanters' Prison were swinging open, creaking gently back and forth in the breeze. He found himself standing in front of them, looking down the narrow, tomb-lined strip.  
  
Death Emperor emerged from the same tomb as before, Samuel had thought he might. The black mist swirls around the graves in keeping with Death Emperor's breathing, like the ocean's tide.  
  
  
When Death Emperor spoke it sounded like the end of the world.  
  
Tell me. . . _what year is this?_''   
  
. . . . Eighteen sixty-two. . .' He couldn't see what else to do but answer.  
  
What has been prophecised for this year?'  
  
Samuel paused, unsure how to answer. He certainly wasn't going to say that Annie will die.  
  
  
Finally he asked Why are you doing this to me?'  
  
Eventually,' the thing sighed, a tidal wave of black mist, It will be for the good of the whole world. . .'   
  
How does _that _work then?' he said cynically.  
  
It looked at him again in that unnerving way it had.  
  
  
It doesn't matter. . .'  
  
  
Of course it fucking matters!' he yelled at the demon. His immediate impulse was to punch it, but he prevented himself. It looked powerful. He gradually, slowly, filled with dread.  
  
  
You will come to understand. . .'   
  
He glared furiously at the thing.   
  
Why is it me, anyway? Why do you pick me too do this to?'  
  
It laughed. Mist rippled.  
  
Believe me, if I had had any choice in the matter, I would have chosen someone else. Someone a little more worthwhile. I don't even want to be here at all. I have to, though. It's been this way for years.'  
  
What are you talking about?'  
  
It looked disapprovingly at him.  
  
Don't you know anything about this yet? . . . Clearly not. Do you remember that pendant your mother gave to you before she died?'  
  
A stone talisman on a length of cord, with some kind of strangely glowing stone set into it. She had said he would need it.  
  
It's got a use. You know, it's one of only three? There were originally six, but three are gone by now. You are a Harmonixer. This means you have been cursed by words spoken centuries ago. I was there, when they were spoken. Six people were forced to bear souls, such as myself, inside their heads. And that passed down the generations. These Harmonixers can call upon the souls to fuse with them, in times of need, and the souls can take over the bodies of the Harmonixers, should they feel the need.'  
  
Take over the body. . . No. . . This demon, controlling him? May as well, he thought, give him a death sentence right now.  
  
The pendant,' Death Emperor continued, is an indicator of Malice. It's one of the perks of being a Harmonixer. Everybody gets Malice, but Harmonixers, as a way of making up for everything else, get these. They tell you when your malice is full. When it's reached the highest point it can, the pendant's stone will glow red. You'll have to find a way to clear the Malice, or suffer the consequences. Malice has its own form, for every single person. Yours, I believe, is an indicator of your own self-hatred.' It sounded as if that gave Death Emperor some sick sense of satisfaction.  
  
What'll happen if I don't clear it?' Samuel asked warily.  
  
You'll have to find out the hard way.''  
  
But I still don''t see the point to all this.' He was finding it hard not to lose his temper. Just cruelty for the sake of it?'  
  
  
There is a point,' Death Emperor said, sounding frustrated. Hearing his voice hurt more than usual. And if it is of any importance to your life, you will come too understand.'  
  
  
Silence descended on the night. Samuel would have argued more, but he could see it was pointless trying to reason with this bastard. He stood, staring at the demon, wondering how to get out of here. The graveyard had two sets of gates; in this version, both were heavily padlocked.  
  
  
The black mist seemed to multiply, growing deeper, thicker, cold and evil. Death Emperor spoke Dalian.. It felt like Samuel was having the words carved into his brain with a dagger.  
  
This time, the first time, you are lucky. You get a warning. I must take over your body now.'  
  
  
  
When it came to this part, Samuel's memories were clear enough. What that fucking evil fiend did then was worse than anything he'd ever dared to fear.   
  
It had killed Annie.  
  
  
  
  
When Death Emperor took control of Samuel's body, it felt as if his skin was shredded by infinitely sharp talons, and pieced back together, welded with a burning flame. He found he was watching through Death Emperor's eyes- everything had a dark tint to it- and he had no power, no knowledge of what was going to happen next.  
  
He sees the graveyard swirl into blackness around. . . them? him? it?   
  
  
He had to watch, no means of intervention, as the small room swirled up,s, Death Emperor was standing by the door, Annie was asleep on one side of the bed. . .  
  
He had to watch as Death Emperor reached down towards Annie, one of its thin grey arms went out, terrible claws slashed down. . . .  
  
There was a spray of dark crimson blood. Annie screamed, eyes wide in terror. Samuel tried to punch his way out of this thing's mind but it was impossible. . .  
  
  
It slashed again, the other way, tattered skin clung to its claws, a trail of ruby droplets fell through the air as it raised its arm.  
  
  
Annie's screaming had stopped, the place was silent, Death Emperor exhaled a long   
sigh of black fog. It washed over Annie's body, sucking her soul away.  
  
  
As a dawn breeze blew against the tenements, outside in the graveyard the leaves shook and waved, sound built up in the city.  
  
Samuel found himself back in his own body, eyes shut. He hoped, painfully, it was all still a horrific nightmare.  
  
  
He opened his eyes, and in that realisation his spirit shattered.  
  
  
Annie's corpse was sprawled on the bed, face and chest rendered unrecognisable by the lacerations. They were deep gouges, still bleeding in the centres of the cuts, though the edges were coated in thick clotted blood, almost black. The bedsheets, wall, floor were all stained scarlet.  
  
Stabbing pains started up inside Samuel's head. It felt like his own voice, yelling at himself.  
  
  
  
_You did this to her! Fucking bastard! You didn't stop that monster! It's your fault! You fucking evil cunt!  
  
  
_He pulled a knife from his pocket, flipped out the blade, and slashed blindly, angrily, at his own arms. Dark blood, exactly the same colour as Annie's, flowed through the rips the knife left on his shirt. It saturated the cloth, pulling it down, it clung to his skin. On the shelf, the talisman had been draining to blue with every cut, rushing back to red the moment he drew the knife away from his skin.  
  
  
Samuel barely remembered any existence after that. Somehow, he knew, Annie was buried in Greyfriars. There hadn't been anyone at the funeral. There hadn't been any prayers, there hadn't even been a gravestone. She was buried as close to Katherine as was possible, that was all he knew, through some vague recollections of robotically making funeral arrangements.  
  
  
  
  
  
It had been three months since then. It hadn't stopped hurting. It was a constant, pounding, guilty pain. Samuel was constantly haunted by images of that night.   
  
The pain showed no signs of fading, and, if anything, it got worse. It built up, over time. Resentment, hate, guilt, and through it all, that fierce love for Annie gather like demons in his mind. Whenever it gets dark, he is thrown into that night, lives it over and over again, then arrives back in reality, confused, still hurting, but for a slight second, not knowing why.  
  
Now he finds himself standing by the window seeing a bleak, grey, pale September dawn. The bells of Greyfriars Kirk strike seven.  
  
In his hands he holds the dusty little red book, open. He doesn't know why, or how he came to be holding it. t's a book of poems by Robert Fergusson. Samuel can't read, anyway: it was Katherine's. He remembers a few odd verses, from hearing her read them aloud.  
  
  
  
He doesn't know, he doesn't know anything any more.  
  
He just feels the pain, and looks out to the busy streets, now as unfamiliar as any foreign country. His arms are bloodstained, crossed with a tangled mess of scars up to the elbows. In his blind rage, he's still missed the veins that could kill him.  
His eyes are blank, dead, bloodshot.  
  
On the shelf, the talisman glows bright red.  



	2. Sanctus Clarus

Zachariah shifts uncomfortably in his sleep. It's the dead of night, and his small room is filled with thick blackness.  
  
In his dream, he's in a church. He's dressed in his full priest's outfit, long dark robes and white collar. The church isn't the one he recognises.  
  
It's small, but intensely decorated, and the curved roof rises high over his head. The very top is shrouded in a dusty sort of dimness, hiding the details of its intricate carvings.  
  
He is standing in front of a door at one end oof the church, as if he had just come in, but when he checks behind him the door is locked. Zachariah faces, at the other end of the church, a small altar in an arch-roofed alcove. At the very back wall of the alcove is a huge, disturbingly lifelike oaken statue of the crucifixion. He walks down the church, past the altar, fascinated by it. It's bigger then life-sized, the wood is dark and polished-looking. Carefully carved rivulets of sweat and blood run down Jesus' face, the crown of thorns leaves realistic scratches in his forehead. The nails hammered into his wrists are real, huge, long hunks of iron hammered in after the statue's completion; it's the same at his feet. From this splintered wound, a steady eternal trickle of wooden blood runs down the remainder of the cross, over the base of the statue, which seems to be a rocky mound. At the front of the base is a skull, also incredibly lifelike. The tiny river of blood runs over the rocks, onto the top of this skull, it runs down and seems to drip into its eye sockets. There is a drop attached to the main stream of blood by a thin sliver of blood. It can't be more than a millimeter thick, it's hard to believe this statue's just wood.  
  
On either side of tee statue there is an old-looking icon with an uncarved, gilded frame. The one on the left side of the crucifix shows Mary Magdalene, in long white robes that end in hundreds of folds and crumples around her feet. She appears to be standing in front of an arch-shaped door. Some of the inside wall is visible at the top of the picture, and behind her there is a dark sky, shrouded in stormclouds. Mary is facing right, towards the statue, hands clasped together and sorrowful face lowered.  
  
The icon on the right of the statue looks like the older of the pair. Parts of the paint are fading and chipped. It shows the Archangel Gabriel, wearing red and green robes. is wings are also green, dark, tipped with red feathers. Gabriel is standing upon a small cloud, against a part green, part gold background. In his left hand the angel holds a golden sceptre, and in his right, he holds a white lily.  
  
  
Zachariah leaves the alcove again and looks around the rest of he church. In the shadows of the arches and pillars on the right side of the church, he notices a small door made of light-coloured wood. Walking over to it, he sees it's fastened with a huge, black padlock. There's a general air of dust and neglect about it. He wonders when it was last opened, and by whom. As he idly runs his fingers across the door, dirt comes away from the wood and reveals the shape of a cross has been etched into the door. It isn't aa complex carving, it looks more like it's been done by the scratching of a mail or a penknife. Without any particular reason, a shiver runs down his spine and spreads cold through his body. He has an inexplicable feeling that the door is keeping something shut in.  
  
  
Turning away from the door, Zachariah explores the other side of the church. The walls are occasionally adorned with icons or murals of saints and angels. Near the end of the church where he first found himself standing, there's a short shadowy corridor leading off only about aa meter or so, to a confession box. He enters it, still feeling a little nervous, jumpy.   
The walls in here are completely covered in complex murals. In one corner, a huge pillar candle flickers and casts unstable shadows through the dim room. The grille through to the priests' side of the box s made of gilt- covered wood, fashioned into long plant tendrils crossing over each other, dotted with the buds of flowers. He can't see anything through the grille, the other side is pitch black.   
  
The jittering light from the candle flame flicks over to the little bench, and Zachariah sees a vague, tiny sparkle of metal. Lying in amongst the dancing blotches of darkness is a set of white rosary beads. Dangling from the rosary, a crucifix carved from some strange kind of gemstone shines blue.   
  
Zachariah picks up the beads and watches the bizzare crucifix's swirling colour. It must just be the way the light's reflecting off it, but it looks as though the surface is moving. Mesmerised, he sits down on the bench as if he were about to confess, and dangles the rosary in front of his face,, watching the smooth movements of blue.  
  
  
It's unnatural. . .   
  
There's no denying now that he feels something strange about this church. He has a creeping worry never far from his thoughts that something less than holy is concealing itself in the shadows of the arches.   
  
Legs suddenly feeling weak, Zachariah steps tentatively back out of the confession booth and along the corridor. When he turns to face the back of the church, he stops.   
  
Is it. . . Can it be. . .  
  
  
His first reaction was to feel icy cold and sick with nerves, then dizzy and faint with awe. Just in front of the alcove, a strange white creature, marked with red and blue lines, it had two small feeler-like protrusions where legs might be. . .   
  
  
Zachariah swallows air, staring in silence at this creature, until his vision goes grainy, and hi eyes sting and begin to water.   
  
finally, he manages to ask Who are you. . . ?'  
  
My name,' it says, is Heaven's Fiend.' It speaks as though it holds great distaste for its own name. Zachariah, though, is left in no doubt what this creature is. . .  
  
  
Are you. . . an angel?'  
  
An _angel_?!' it replies scornfully. I have better things to do than hang around sucking God's cock.'  
  
Zachariah takes a step backwards, pushed by the blasphemous venom of the thing's words. Eyes now narrowed, he still stares at it, but now with fear and hate. He can only bring himself to utter one stunned word.   
  
. . . Satan. . .'   
  
Heaven's _Fiend_,' it says sarcastically. Not Heaven's _Reject._'  
  
  
Zachariah is truly confused now, This thing shows no respect for either the forces of good or evil. But it _cannot _be good, not after the heretical, heathen things it had dared to utter.   
  
It is some unknown evil, perhaps. A fallen angel, a demon contending for the throne of Hell?  
  
  
He feels worried, terrified, through the muffled feeling  
  
. . ._ this is all a dream. . .   
  
  
_The Lord has ways of communication. Dreams can be divine revelations. Dreams can herald damnation.   
  
  
. . . _divine revelations, divine light. _  
  
. . . He is a light-class himself. . .   
  
  
. . . White-gold, divine, blinding light floods into his eyes, soaks through his head, into the shadowy corners at the back of his mind. In an automatic reflex, he shuts his eyes against it.   
  
That makes almost no difference. It's like the light bores into his eyelids, it burns a hole through them.   
  
Zachariah forces his eyes open, his eyelids flicker, dragging themselves down shut against his will. It takes all his conscious effort to hold them open. Now he can feel his bed beneath him again, he's awake. Stepping into the light from behind it, is the . . . Angel. . . The Archangel Gabriel.   
  
At first he is just a darker, eye-soothing centre to the light. But he comes gradually into focus, red and green robes, folded feathered wings. His arms are bent at the elbow, hands hold up a shimmering white flower and a sparkling sceptre.   
  
Now Zachariah is left completely unable to speak. What does this visit signify, along with the things he saw in his dream? All he can do is bring hiss hands together, incline his head, and whisper an awed, reverent prayer.   
  
Gabriel speaks to him. His voice sounds like a million all speaking in melodious unity.  
  
Zachariah. . . . You have been chosen. For you do not simply _believe _in the same way others do. You _know. _ You know, deep inside you, you know of God''s supreme power and glory. It is an innate holiness that you possess. Go, on your Mission, and you must defeat the . . . _false _Revelation. . . Go Eastwards, and you shall receive guidance from God on what you must do next.   
  
  
He stares at the angel, not understanding its words, memorising them all the same. it feels like the light is spreading through his body, sinking down from his head. He feels tense with fear and wonder.  
Asking what the angel means in more detail is out of the question. He doesn't know what the message means, but he must follow His instructions. And he must not fail Him.  
  
As the Archangel Gabriel's light fades, so does his consciousness, and by the time the room is back to its natural blackness he is lying back on the bed, somewhere just beyond asleep.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It's my one- year anniversary of being on fanfiction.net today. Sheeeesh. I was even worse when I first started. . . . Ah memories. Not _good _ones. But memories. Of flyiing romantic bricks and drunk Zhuzhens. Some things are just better left in the safely deleted past, hmm?  
  
I have to apologise forr the godawful state of the spelling last chapter. I was just changing words to any random old thing the spellchecker said. Never trust a spellchecekr. I must have had some godsdamned random spelling though. It changed to .  
  
  
It was *meant* to say Death Emperor spoke _again_. O.o Sorry for any confusion. . .  
  
  
  
Thanks for reviewing, Nights Mistress (_Sorry. I really didn't mean to say toyou were paranoid or anything. Just trying to be on the safe side. . .) _, Aegis (_Not sure if Lovecraft invented Elder Sign, but people used in his stories. . . It ws a sign that I don't think he ever described fully, done with the right hand to protect against nameless unimaginable horrors' n' such. There'll be explanations for malice later. They may or may not make sense. ) _, MikoNoNyte (_The only dictionary that has is some big random huge one that was at the book festival, that had it as a time between sleeping and waking. Not sure where I found the word, my spellchecker didn't complain but then we all know how much one can trust this spellchecker. ) _and Leels _(he's not a Mary Sue. He's just misunderstood. And the Mackenzie Poltergeist has a LOT less to do with this than it looks like it does. Honest. )  
  
_I'm not gonna be updating anything or onlone att all for ages, cos I have to go up a hill and dieof frostbite in a tent.   
  
Oh joy. It's raining. A lot. It had better stop by tomorrow morning. . . O.o I'm too young to die!   
  
  



	3. The Vicious Circle

Malice Judgement Chapter 4  
Abashiri, Hokkaido  
  
For as long as he could remember, Michael Hyuga had been haunted by a voice named kaphael in his head. He had never thought that this was unusual, when he was young, and by the time he realised that not everyone was like that, he was far too accustomed to Kaphael to be bothered. Well, he was not bothered about the fact that Kaphael was there- but Kaphael seemed to be rather bothered about the fact e had to reside in Michael's head. Kaphael was clever, sarcastic, and from an early age he had seemed to enjoy torturing Michael. It hurt whenever Kaphael spoke, which suited him. But, probably much to kaphael's annoyance, it didn't hurt half as much as harmonixing.  
  
  
  
One night, when he was twelve, Michael had woken up with a headache worse than anything he'd ever felt before. He had, at first, assumed that Kaphael was in a bad mood, but no message came. He shut his eyes tightly, and didn't notice any difference from the two o'clock blackness. Decidedly not crying, he hugged his knees, rested his head on them and arched his shoulders against the pain; half-shrouded in bedclothes. When he opened them, and raised his head to the ceiling, he expected darkness, but instead he saw a dark blue sky.  
  
Michael looked around him, not believing, but going along with the illusion. It was only a dream, after all. He was in a grassy, open area. Unlike most dreams, nothing was happening, so he put his head back on his knees and tried to go back to sleep so he could wake up in the right place. The pain in his head was gone now. He sat with the burnt out, resigned feeling o being about to go to sleep, but never quite managing. Michael only opened his eyes when he felt a light brushing of air around him, as if something was moving. He stared up at the creature with curiosity, but no fear. It was like a tiger, or had used a tiger as its jumping-off point: the limbs were elongated and it stood upright, it was strangely coloured- greens and browns- and i could speak in perfectly coherent Japanese. It sounded female.  
  
The tiger stalked around him a couple of times. Michael could feel it staring at him. It was a disturbing feeling. Eventually it stopped, in front of him. It knelt down and, slipping its fingers- unusually long for a tiger's- under his chin to lift his head out of the way, inspected his neck.  
  
Not even got the talisman yet?' it sighed.  
  
So this was fusion. Michael didn't know a lot about it, but he had heard a bit, put together from obscure references overheard at family gatherings, and from one memorable occasion when his father, drunk, had given him a long monologue on how the entire family was cursed, doomed, and largely totally insane to boot. Just as he was getting to the interesting part, Michael's mother had intervened, asking his father what did he _expect_, if _this _was the way Hyuga children were brought up. She told him not to fill Michael's head with nonsense, and he might have a chance of growing up comparatively normal. It had been a nice thought, but not much of a help. Michael's head was quite capable of filling itself with nonsense. Nonsense called Raging Tiger. She wasn't quite what he had expected from a fusion soul. he'd expected it to be more dramatic, demonic, shadowy corners of his mind filled with twisted, storybook devils. He hadn't expected a talking green tiger, and he wasn't sure if this was better or worse than the demons. In retrospect, it was probably worse.   
  
  
  
  
Harmonixing turned out to be a complex web of rituals, malice, and strangely coloured animals. Michael was glad his father had been there to help him get used to it. He had given his son the family talisman, saying that, by now, he was getting so used to what malice felt like, he hardly needed the talisman himself. Malice was invariably the hardest part of harmonixing, and Michael was eternally grateful that his father had explained it to him before the fusion soul had- she seemed to view malice as some kind of a sport. Malice, apparently, was different for every harmonixer. How quickly it built up and how much trouble you got from it depended on how sane you were when you started. Malice for him measured, Raging Tiger informed him, his built-up anger, all the things that he was angry about but ignored at the time. Michael thought that it would be easy to avoid getting malice: simply deal with emotions when you get them, and there'll be no built up anger. But it's never than simple. If it had been as simple as that, then harmonixing would have been a gift and not a curse.  
  
  
  
Kaphael was, predictably, unsympathetic. He seemed to be constantly present, even when Michael was inside his own head where the fusion souls resided. Well, that made sense, Kaphael was in his head as well. Where in his head, Michael wondered. That place wasn't all of his mind, just a centre for harmonixing. It was permanently twilight there; it looked like some kind of park, a round, grassy area lined by trees that were always leafless. The autumn leaves gathered in mounds around the place, never quite in the same position as they had been the last time he visited. Michael always came into the park at the same point, at one end of the path, and, always facing him at the other end,, there was a strange building- like a hut,, white walls, wooden roof, wrought iron carvings on its gates. It had gates, instead of doors. Inside it was pitch black.  
  
  
  
  
  
Whatever happened in that place, whether it had been to do with the malice, or fusion souls, or anything else, Kaphael would later inform Michael that, had it been up to him, he would have known better than to do whatever Michael did. So Michael would get angry, but not be able to do anything about it, because what could he do to Kaphael? It only made him angrier if he argued with the voice. So then he would get malice, and then, of course, Kaphael would have known better than to get the malice in the first place, or he would have fought better; and then the malice would get worse. Then, once he had returned from clearing it, Kaphael would start up again, almost immediately. it got so that Michael was visiting the inside of his mind twice a day, sometimes even more. It was almost too much for him, he was wearing down, his mind was breaking. He couldn't concentrate on anything, and, as it worsened over the years, he would find himself muttering out loud to Kaphael in anger. Sometimes, the malice would get too much before he could clear it, and he'd lose his temper, lashing out at anything around. And all the while, the cycle of malice would get worse and worse, spiral deeper and deeper. It was never going to be simple, he should have known that. . . .  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Do I exist any more? Oh well, never mind if I don't, it's my own fault. How long has it been since I last wrote anything?Twenty-five vigintillion years by the looks of things. I could make up a lot of excuses but that is just inexcusable. *sweatdrop*   
  
And because of all the idiot things I have stated doing, which add up to five SH fanfics (one of which needs enough research to kill a brain) , two original fics (one of which needs twice the amount of research because I''m being annoyingly historically accurate with it) and one idiotic misguided website about Edinburgh ghosts ( shudder at the amount of research) I have decided to downsize. So I'm only going to do one SH fic at a time.   
  
First I will finish the Malice Judgement.  
Then I will (maybe I actually WILL this time) finish Malkovich.  
Then I will start again on the idiot Bacon thingy.  
And sometime in between all that I'll get the last chapter of Death Letter. . . . and maybe do a one-shot thing which I'm almost finished writing anyway now so I might as well. Poor Margarete keeps getting shunned for the manic harmonixers.  
  
  
  
Thank you, first, to anyone who is actually reading this chapter. I don't deserve it after all that skiving- off-time.  
  
And thank you for reviewing last chapter, Leels (_Shadow Hearts was far too good a fandom for Mission/Rev mentions not to have at least one in somewhere! _) and Kim Grasshopper (_Yuri... Er, no... I never even thought of it being Yuri. I was just sticking it in cuz the icons said so. It symbolises that he heralds news or some random thing like that. Heaven's Fiend is based off my brother, and I'm not even joking. I think he's said everything in there at one point or another._)  
  
  
  
O.o;;;;;;;;;;  
  
I just realised I have COMPLETELY FUCKING FORGOT the plot of this fic. *cries* It had a lot of dead harmonixers and squelchy Lovecraftian things but WHAT THE HELL WERE THEY DOING THERE?  
  
What a hoobledoobledooper question for Hoob news! _What are the fucking random shoggoths doing in my head? _Let's go and ask some tiddlypeeps.  
  
Er, what does that prove? That proves I watch way too much kid's TV at six o clock in the morning. The Hoobs are genious. They're very dodgy for a toddler's programme. My brain has clearly melted in my absence. What do the Hoobs have to do with ANYTHING?  
  
*shuts the bloody hell up for once*


	4. Smile

*blows dust off fic* I know. I know. I've been far too busy. There's also a billion fics I haven't read the latest chapters of yet, and I will try to do a lot of reading before very long. I don't have time or the requisite intelligence, so I'm going to have to cut down on the amount of fics I'm writing. I don't even know how many SH fics I'm halfway through but the only ones I'm keeping on this site are Malkovich and this one. It's been so long since I updated anything that people have probably forgotten what they are anyway.   
  
Small reminder: This is the fic where people die. A lot.  
  
This chapter makes no sense, but, surprisingly, I do know where I'm going with it.   
  
London, England  
  
A silent room, dark, polished furniture picked out with warm squares of sunlight from the window, through which can be seen a spacious garden. At a long table, a tall, silver-haired man dressed in a black suit is seated, piles of old, yellowing books and newer white paper littering the table.  
  
He sighs and leans back in his chair, putting down a book.  
  
Why does this never get any easier? You'd think by now it'd just be the same old thing...' he murmours, soft English accent, more to himself than to the other occupant of the room. A tall woman with thick, dull brown hair pinned up and a necklace with a design that looked like a cobweb is standing by the door. She, rather idly, is looking through a book as well.  
  
Well, _I_ wouldn't know anything about that, Master Bacon,' she said, low, level voice with little trace of an accent.  
  
No, Olga, of course. But it always seems to be a completely different process. More bothersome every time.'  
  
Barely noticeable raise of her eyebrows. Yes, but we must remember to keep our purpose in mind, Master. Any amount of time would be worth it.'  
  
Yes, I _know_,' he replies irritably. If I didn't, I wouldn't be here trying, would I? And neither would _you_, so don't-'  
  
Master Bacon?' she asks, firmly and calmly cutting his tirade short. Have all the Souls begun the plans arranged yet?'  
  
Yes, they have, Olga... Only three this time. It gets harder as the harmonixing families die out. I remember, when I first began this kind of thing... there was still one for each element.'  
  
I didn't think the elements mattered that much...'  
  
They don't, not really. The whole element thing is more of a ... formality. By now, the souls are just going where there's room for them. As long as the first soul a Harmonixer has is of the same element as them... otherwise, the soul sort of... clashes with their mind. _Somebody _usually goes mad. All Harmonixers still have to be vague descendants of the original six, but not so as you'd notice.'  
  
No, master?'  
  
'No, they're in Japan, France and Scotland, I believe. There haven't even been Harmonixers in Palestine for generations.'  
  
I see... So if all the Souls have begun the plan, what is it that we have to do now?'  
  
Wait. And help them along the way, I suppose. Bacon remembers something, and rolls his eyes. Better keep an eye on Heaven's Fiend. That one is still behaving like an immature teenager after almost two thousand years... And the Harmonixer is a bloody _priest_.'  
  
Olga stifles a laugh. At least this isn't going to be boring.'  
  
It isn't _funny. _The sooner you learn that the better. I've had enough of these things failing because of someone's stupidity.'  
  
_Never your own, I suppose, _Olga thinks, but only says Who are the other two Souls this time?'  
  
Raging Tiger... she's got the Hyuga, and she's rather annoyed about it. Usually the Hyugas are dark-classed, but this one is Earth. Hyugas are difficult, insanity runs in that family quite seperately from Harmonixing. God knows, sometimes I wonder if they even realise they _have _fusion souls. And then there's Death Emperor who has taken his ham-fisted overdramatic tactics to Edinburgh where he can have fun ruining the life of someone who isn't a Hyuga for a change.'  
  
Really?' Olga walks over to the table, sitting down opposite Bacon. They see this as fun?'  
  
Well no, not really. That was the wrong choice of words. But, to tell the truth, Death Emperor is having doubts about this whole thing. Perhaps being so long with the Hyugas has turned him a little mad himself. But the last time I spoke to him, Olga, he worried me. He was describing the Promise as a curse. Of course, when the six Souls all made their original pledge, Death Emperor was one of the most outspoken. He fervently opposed the whole Creation right from the start, even before it all went so wrong. And he believed every one of these predictions.'  
  
Well, they're all true, aren't they?'  
  
All coming true, in perfect order, even. There is a terrible one approaching fast. Before a hundred years are past, the very end will have begun- not just for this worthless rock, but for everything. It will take a long time for eternity to crash in on itself, but it will happen. It'll happen unless we stop it. It really depends on Death Emperor not doing anything stupid. He can't get out of it now, but he certainly can ruin this attempt... and future attempts. We really have to count on this time being the one. The world will begin soon... they said it will begin a long stretch of brutality... more bloodshed for less reason than even humanity has managed before.'  
  
I see no reason why we should fail this time,' says Olga, more confidently than Bacon felt she ought to. This was her first attempt, after all, and she had little idea what was involved. We have found our key, haven't we... the French girl,' Olga continues.  
  
Yes... she's still in her teens, she hears voices and tells herself she has a psychic gift. She's got just the kind of weak mind that should be easy to work with.'  
  
And class is no object when it comes to Keys?'  
  
Not at all. We can use someone of any class, change the ritual to suit the properties of the soul. Olga, I think you place rather too much value on class. We can always work round it. People work around their own class all the time. It doesn't affect their life, personality, destiny... Unless they let it, of course.'  
  
Or unless they're a dark-classed Harmonixer and get stuck with that nut of a Death Emperor...' Olga remarks quietly.  
  
Not that it matters. Harmonixers are unimportant, as unimportant, alone, as anyone else in this world. Harmonixers are just another part of humanity, only dangerous as an entire race- alone, they can do nothing. It is the Souls, Olga, and you _know _ this already or you wouldn't be here- it is the Souls who are important.'  
  
Yes, Bacon, but-'  
  
The man shoots her a warning glance. They have not yet reached the stage where he does not have to be addressed as . Olga takes the point on board, without giving the appearance of feeling chastised.  
  
What I was saying, Master Bacon... If, as you say, the Harmonixers are just ineffectual fragments of humanity... then so are we, surely? What is it that makes you think you could make a difference?'  
  
You're being incredibly sceptical for someone who's supposed to be on the same side as me. But, I suppose, the very fact you are asking that question shows you have thought about exactly what it is we're doing. The thing which makes us- and I hope I can mean us rather than just me- different is that we have seen this world for everything it really is. We've realised how it's rotten to the core. We've realised the futility of the human race, what they've become. Then, I realised, or rather discovered through research, this is not how they've become. It's how they always were. Then, when we were recruited, it's as if we were seperated from the rest of humanity. Not that we're any better, but... at least we're trying.' Tired, Bacon closes his eyes, sighing, leaning back again.  
  
And we will succeed,' says Olga, comforting, but sounding vaguely distracted. Bacon completely ignores her.  
  
Annoyed, Olga gets up and turns for the door, sweep of a long grey dress. She waits before leaving, watching Bacon from a distance. No movement.  
  
Goodbye, Master Bacon?' she tries. No response.  
  
Without another word, Olga slips silently trough the door and shuts it behind her. Down the empty hall, then out into quiet London Sunday streets. the cold blue sky agrees, screaming a gale at humanity.  
  
Thank you for reviewing last chapter, Hunter's Eyebrows. Hahaha. Finally the eyebrows have fallen into my trap!  
  
Oh, damnit, it's only Leels.   
Okay then, answers to the huge question list.  
  
1. Not in this version! There's quite a big difference between this and Kirkyard Epilogue.  
2. Yeah, the point that this is a different story.  
3. Hmm. I was going to use the excuse that the Edinburgh in this fic is more like the early 1700s and it'd be quite possible to get away with absolutely anything. But... then I had an idea...  
4. Would I do that to you?  
5. Yes, much less relevant. But you never know.  
6.Yes. But dear gods, no.  
7. Hallow Fair? How the hell would I work that in then? I don't think he's exactly the socialising type at the moment. But as for tolbooths, this is my idea. Maybe... the Grassmarket... this is my idea takiing shape.  
8. Of course. Have you met him?  
9. Fine then. But I do need a personality for Michael.  
10. She'll be in something, but not this and not K.E. Yeah. In a Javey. Whatever.


	5. Are You Awake?

It's been how long? Five years? Sorry. I was writing other stuff ... shameless plug such as Breaking Mirrors, with Feem, and Welcome To The Necropolis with Leels. (That will be continuing, only it'll take REALLY long cuz of having to use olde-worlde forms of communication.) And you really really want to read these fics because it will improve the general quality of your life and the first 83 readers get free Glasto tickets! ... -- There's about twenty million other things I'm trying to write... and you never know, if I'm not too busy there might be the occasional Devendra Banhart songfic. Think of that and tremble. And now I'm just spraffing on here instead of typing the bloody fic up! I swear my handwriting gets harder to read every day! Oh, and I really should apologise for my new character's name... it wasn't even my idea. glares at Feem Actually I doubt anyone would have noticed I was being stupid with it. Pretend I never said anything.  
Historical Note: This all actually happened. Um no, what I meant to say is that it''s vaguely accurate for the 1700s, by the 1860s neither of the Tolbooths would still be in use, as the jail on Calton Hill was built in blah blah blah olde binmen blah potted life history of George Mackenzie shut up for christ's sake.  
  
The Malice Judgement: Chapter 5 at long fucking last  
Edinburgh  
  
The city turns dark with a stinging mix of rain and sleet; rain turning the tenements' roofs into waterfalls, leaving dark brown stripes down the sides of the buildings. Hail grows steadily harder, ice like stones that you can catch in your had, watch them slowly melt, stones that bite you as the wind spits them in your face. The storm makes a dull, rumbling, muffled clatter inside the Tolbooth. It's dark here, and the stone on the wall is damp, edged in thin streaks of green slimy moss. A pile of straw in one corner and scattered half across the floor provides the only comfort. It isn't very comforting by now, off-coloured and smelly, god knows how old it is. There's a tiny barred window high up on the back wall, you can see pale raining sky, the top of the dirty grey skyline. There's another barred window, in the thick wooden door of the cell. This shows an echoey dark corridor, doors of other cells. And sitting, sprawled on the heap of straw, leaning against the wall, is a short, black-haired man. His face is marked with little pits, the marks of the smallpox. His dark eyes dart around the room restlessly, they keep flicking back to Samuel's face, studying his new cellmate. Samuel stares blankly back at him for a couple of seconds, then sits in the furthest corner, his own eyes fixed on the high-up window.  
  
After a few minutes of this silence, the man asks Who are ye?'  
  
Samuel remains silent. Death Emperor replies Samuel Bell.'  
  
Ye cannae fucking talk wi' ma mou'?' Samuel spits bitterly. The other man looks at him in a mix of fear and confusion. With a degree of trepidation, he says Ah'm Davie Marchand, by the way. In here for treason. ... Whit're ye in for yersel'?' He's not sure he wants to know the answer.  
  
Killin' ma bairn,' Death Emperor states matter-of-factly. Samuel punches himself in the face. It seems to him the only way he has to harm the fusion soul. It doesn't seem like it'd succumb easily to any kind of mental thing.  
  
Dinnae feel a thing,' Death Emperor informs him.  
  
How come ye dinnae need tae use ma voice tae say _that_?'  
  
Death Emperor remains silent. So does Davie.

For now, Death Emperor resides in the part of Samuel's mind set aside for harmonixing. It looks basically the same as Greyfriars Graveyard but the kirk in the centre is a burnt out, black and jagged shell. By a simple thought process, that's all it takes, he can possess Samuel's body, see through his eyes, use him. His own physical body is useless, nonexistent, unless Samuel is fused with him. He exists, for now, as an idea. A collection of his won ideas. A consciousness without a physicality to go home to. Of course, he can always possess Samuel's body and make him fuse. Then he's physical enough.   
  
Death Emperor never did understand the science of it all, he always fancied himself more as a philosopher. But he remained secure in the knowledge that even the scientists couldn't explain fusion. They said it was amazing what the mind can do, how powerful it is. They didn't understand what went on, how a human body could change so suddenly, so completely, into something else. Raging Tiger had been trying to find a theory for it, but Death Emperor hadn't been speaking much to the other fusion souls since he had realised how ridiculous their whole plan was. He'd tried explaining it was madness; but they just refused to see. They called him a traitor. Most of all, he despised Czernobog. He might be more physically powerful than Death Emperor when fused, but that meant absolutely nothing in this world where the mind was all there was. The homeless ideas. Death Emperor knew his ideas were a good deal closer to the truth than theirs. This idea they could make things right again. It's only wishful thinking and they're only going to make it worse. He couldn't believe he'd once been so enthusiastic towards the stupid plot.  
  
And then they'd started getting the humans involved... Death Emperor hadn't agreed to that, but at the time he'd still been about as misguided as the rest of them, so he didn't argue much. The first was some idealistic young boy, Albert Simon, a student of the famous or possibly infamous Roger Bacon. Death Emperor wished he'd paid more attention to what Bacon was saying at the time. He'd said it couldn't happen, not now and certainly not this way. He even tried to stop it. If anyone had listened back then, Death Emperor realises, right now we wouldn't be here. It wouldn't have got this out of control. But it's too late now... It's not, he reminds himself, it's not too late. He's gone too far in his counter-attack, with this latest harmonixer, for him to give up now.  
  
At the time of joining them, Albert Simon had been young, comparatively uneducated. But he'd been thinking in just the kind of radical- and for radical, Death Emperor thinks, read deluded'- way the fusion souls were looking for. So they'd got to him. this had seemed like just what they needed, someone in the front line of battle. The entire planet Earth. That was their front line of battle. He was not a harmonixer by genetics, but you don't need to be, not to just communicate with a fusion soul. The whole thing is controlled by the fusion souls, really. Doing it by family was an easy way to stop them having to look around new people to use every few years when one of them died. But they could change it whenever they want to. Most humans are pretty much the same anyway, it wouldn't make a difference. Thank fuck for that, thinks Death Emperor. Imagine if the entire human race was made up of people like Albert Simon. There weren't many. In the few hundred years since Albert was recruited, they'd only found one more, recently, a woman named Olga. Death Emperor thought she was a pretty good example of everything this plan had going against it. Not just wrong, but silly, misinformed and disorganised to boot. They refused point blank to accept this, though, and so Albert Simon had turned up, here, in Samuel's mind, trying to persuade Death Emperor that if he couldn't help them he could at least keep the hell out of it.  
  
Appearing in people's heads like this was a simple psychic projection spell that Death Emperor was now deeply regretting having ever taught Albert. He had hoped it wouldn't work if the person you were appearing to was at the time only a thought themself. As the only part of you that went anywhere was your thoughts and your spirit, it has to be going somewhere. It can't go outside on its own, because if it gets lost and floats off into the air, it s going to get overpowered by all those other thoughts out there and it'll never get back into anybody. You'll be dead. While you're doing this mental projection, your body is on autopilot, breathing and heart still beating, but if you're out of your own mind for too long, it'll assume you aren't coming back and stop working. And if your mind tries to get back to your body once it's physically dead, well, things can get very messy indeed. So your mind needs to be in some kind of physical container, to stop it getting lost. This brings the thought to Death Emperor that fusion souls are like the hermit crabs of the mind, moving from shell to shell. Albert couldn't be appearing inside Death Emperor's head right now, because he hasn't even technically got a head. But he's in Samuel's, and, for the moment, there is no escape.  
  
Death Emperor,' Albert says, and it's obvious from his voice that he'd rather not be there either. The fusion soul ignores him completely.  
  
Look,' Albert continues. I suppose I can't make you want to continue with fulfilling the Promise. But it's about two thousand years too late to do anything about it. Nothing you can do will take effect, so please, do us all a favour and stop behaving so ridiculously. You made a commitment and there is no way for you to get out of it, not until the Promise is fulfilled. It'll be over a lot more quickly if-'  
  
This was never about getting it over with quickly! This is about the fact that your plan is never going to work and it will certainly create a lot more problems. You really don't have that much idea what you're doing. Admit it. Not that I'm implying that I do, of course, but wisest is he who knows he does not know, as they say. This is an entire planet you're pissing about with.'  
  
That rather was the point,' sighs Albert, trying not to get drawn into an argument.  
  
Anyway, Albert,' Death Emperor says. What you said about not having any way out of it is not strictly true. I know, due to my own mistake of agreeing to this, I'm going to be passed around from mind to mind until either the Promise is fulfilled or every harmonixer on earth is dead.'  
  
Oh, bloody hell! Death Emperor, you can't seriously believe that'll work! In theory, maybe, but in practice it hasn't got a chance of working!''  
  
Much like this stupid Promise. May as well meet idiocy with idiocy,' Death Emperor murmours, softly sarcastic.  
  
No, but... whatever horrible death you have in mind for your current Harmonixer, it doesn't really matter, because you're going to end up sharing a mind with other fusion souls. You're hardly the best fighter, unless you've spent the past couple of centuries weight training... And that''s another thing. I assume this recent bloodthirsty episode is part of your kill all harmonixers' plan. Given what you're saying about our methods of fulfilling the Promise, it's incredibly hypocritical. It wasn't even particularly efficient. Not that I think you ought to have done this at all, but you could have killed the harmonixer, then the child. You'd have ended up in in her head anyway. Now what have you got yourself into? What use is the harmonixer going to be to anyone if he's locked up? I don't see how you plan to kill him- there's no weapons in here, no knives, nothing...''  
  
These lovely chaps at the City Chambers are going to kill him for me,' replies Death Emperor breezily. He's going to be hanged soon. And I don't need you here telling me off, Albert. Now could you please just leave, you patronising old twat?'  
  
Albert ignores the last part of the remark and instead says,' You seem to have forgotten that family is only the way we're doing it at the moment. Even if you do kill all the relatives of the harmonixers who are alive at the moment, we can just start using other people. You'd end up having to kill the whole human race- so you may as well just let us do that. We are going to find a way around you, and really, it isn't going to be incredibly difficult.' Then, on an afterthought, he adds,' Is the harmonixer hearing all this? We are in his head, after all.'  
  
Well,' Death Emperor tells him firmly. t's entirely your own fault if he is. My guess is he doesn't understand and probably couldn't care less. But you never know, do you? So why don't you just bugger off before he starts figuring stuff out?'   
  
Albert is steadily getting more and more annoyed. He can't see himself getting anywhere by staying here, but if he leaves now, it'll be a minor victory for Death Emperor. _Oh, who cares, _he thinks. If Death Emperor is going to be petty about this, let him. And, with a few seconds of concentration, he removes himself from Samuel's mind.

It's a no-man's-land of a grey twilight, not properly daylight but not anywhere near dark either. The light is hard, making sharp shadows on the gravestone carvings. Even the grass is outlined in that clear, too-real way. It's like the graveyard goes on forever, even though Samuel can see the walls. it feels like infinity locked into a few square muddy feet.  
  
Over by the gate in the Flodden Wall, leading through to another part of the graveyard, he sees a movement and he doesn't want to go over, because it will be Death Emperor, again. And there's no point in not going over because if Death Emperor wants something to happen it will happen, somehow.  
  
Slowly, but more quickly than he thinks, he walks over, between the gravestones leaning and blending into each other like growing plants. There is a silence everywhere that you don't quite notice at first. You notice that the atmosphere is strange but you don't know why. Samuel reaches the Flodden Wall, itself studded with headstones. The gate in it that leads to a different, less crowded part of the graveyard is open. And all sleep is any more is a chain of open gates and none of it makes any sense. And Samuel walks through it because there is nothing else for him but this any more.  
  
This part of the graveyard is a long downhill slope, closed with walls on either side. The left wall would normally have separated the graveyard from a boys' school, but in this reimagining, beyond the wall is just more of the city. The right-hand wall, the Flodden Wall, used to be the city boundary a few hundred years ago. but the numbers of the dead swelled and spilled over, and the graveyard crept beyond the city's edge.  
  
This slope is lined with graves, on both sides and in a line down the middle. At the bottom of the slope you can see over the city, down towards the Cowgate and the Grassmarket. This world, the city looks like it used to, like it hasn't looked for centuries. The tenements are much higher, and built not just with the grey-brown stone he's used to seeing, but the upper stories are built with wood. They're layered in a haphazard way, the tops creaking, swaying gently in gusts of wind. The city looks alive, not dead stone like it's always looked to him, breathing out dirty grey smoke. It's rippling, growing, slowly but always, getting taller.  
  
On the right side of the narrow slope, there's a place by the wall, a little grassy area, where some free-standing gravestones have been knocked over, smashed up.  
  
It wasn't Death Emperor, was it, what he saw?  
  
He's even finding it hard to register, hard to find a place inside his own mind, where he can see clearly and understand what's going on. A part of the mind knows and maybe the rest of it doesn't know whether it knows or not. On one of the smashed-up gravestones, the headstone of one Alexander Ross, Annie is sitting, curled up and small. Her old white dress, grey by now, is muddy and stained with something darker too, black. Her hair is tangled over her face, head hanging to one side, not much but still strangely impossible. As she raises her head to look at Samuel her hair falls away.  
  
Her face, that unmistakable look of clay, purple and red mottled patches that look like bruises across the grey of it. Annie opens her eyes and blinks slowly, smoothly, dreamlike. Under the heavy dragging lids her eyes are washed with blood, watery dark red which sweeps up her eyes with the lids, and when she shuts them again it's spilling over the bottom eyelids, slowly running a path over her cold face.  
  
And this is anything but peaceful, anything but asleep. So we live, confused and asleep, then we die and only then do we wake up. Then all these gravestones saying _do not weep for I am only sleeping , _they're all wrong, they're all the wrong way round. You should weep. Cry your fucking heart out.   
  
Waking up is the worst thing you can do. It's bad enough asleep and none of that even matters. Don't walk into the light. Once you see what you've been sleepwalking through, really you are going to wish you'd never woken up.  
  
And once again, thank you my dear and lovely reviewers. Aegis **(this chapter was probably even more confusing than the last one -- There might be actual sense by the end.)**, Kim and somebody who is more likely to be Leels than the plushy Cthulhu spork monster. It was _when? February?! _I really have to update this more often.


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